


Shut Up, English, I'm Captain America

by rikubean



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angie is Captain America, F/F, cap!angie
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-03
Updated: 2015-09-17
Packaged: 2018-04-18 20:57:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4720199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rikubean/pseuds/rikubean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You were just trying to find out why you’re here, no?” At the startled sound she makes, he continues, “I don’t blame you. It is rather curious, how many nurses like yourself we have around. More than an ordinary training base normally has, I should think.” He smiles at her, like he expected her to go snooping around.</p>
<p>“I, uh, wouldn’t know, sir,” she stammers....</p>
<p>“Well, come on then.” He steps into the room she had been trying to sneak into and holds the door. “I think it’s about time you knew about Project Rebirth.”</p>
<p>Angie’s pretty sure that moment is when everything went tits-up for her.</p>
<p>--</p>
<p>or, the one where Angie is Captain America.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

_I gotta stop stickin’ my nose in where it don’t belong,_ Angie thinks as she tries desperately to silence the click of her heels on the tiled floor. “Shoulda listened to ma,” she mutters. If it weren’t her Italian name getting her grief around the base, all the secrecy alone would be enough to drive her mad. But, in her defense, how in the name of her grandma’s famous lasagne recipe did they expect her to be any good at her job when they _wouldn’t tell her nothing about the damn project_?

She’s getting awful tired of her rank getting her absolutely nowhere when even the private recruits know what they’re all on this godforsaken base for, why all the hush-hush about, and why they had a German scientist sulking around eyeing up the recruits, tutting about after talking to the Colonel.

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

Angie whirls around at the voice, eyes wide. “I, er, is this…. not... the way to the bathroom?” Christ Almighty, of all the things she could’ve come up with, that’s all she could come up with? She’s sunk for sure, dishonorable discharge and hopefully not a jail cell waiting for her back in New York.

Abraham Erskine gives her what she hopes is an amused smile, tucking his hands into his pockets. “You’ve been on this base longer than I have,” he says. “You tell me.”

She scuffs one of her _terribly loud_ heels against the floor. “I was just…..”

“You were just trying to find out why you’re here, no?” At the startled sound she makes, he continues, “I don’t blame you. It is rather curious, how many nurses like yourself we have around. More than an ordinary training base normally has, I should think.” He smiles at her, like he expected her to go snooping around.

“I, uh, wouldn’t know, sir,” she stammers. “First assignment. I figured, all my brothers got sent off to fight, might as well do my part too.” She straightens her shoulders when she answers, pride shadowing the sheepishness at the entire situation. “Didn’t know they’d send me to _Jersey_ of all places.” The last bit is mumbled, but Erskine cracks a smile all the same.

“Well, come on then.” He steps into the room she had been trying to sneak into and holds the door. “I think it’s about time you knew about Project Rebirth.”

Angie’s pretty sure that moment is when everything went tits-up for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is totally alriviera's fault. Everyone should go harass her tumblr and see all the gifsets she's made that inspired this fic. 
> 
> I haven't written fic in like a decade, so please if you feel I've mucked something up feel free to point it out to me. 
> 
> There will likely not be any Steve or Bucky in this fic, sorry! 
> 
> Currently planning updates on Tuesdays and Thursdays. 
> 
> I'm rikubean on tumblr.


	2. 01. play that silky tune

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What’re we doin’ here?” The sign on the door reads “Brooklyn Antiques,” and Angie must’ve passed by this spot dozens of times without seeing nothing out of the ordinary. 
> 
> Instead of answering her proper, Peggy just gestures her to follow into the shop. The inside looks just as uninteresting as the outside, right down to the dowdy old lady shopkeeper. 
> 
> But that’s where the normalcy ends, when Agent Carter straightens and gives what’s clearly a code phrase - “Wonderful weather we’re having.” “Yes, but I always carry an umbrella.” - and a bookcase opens up to show some kinda secret underground mad science lab. Erskine is there, below, prepping a scary-looking table that reminds Angie rather uncomfortably of the time she had to read _Frankenstein_ for class. 
> 
> \--
> 
> or, the one where Angie gets prepped for the super soldier serum.

It starts with Agent Carter. Stupidly attractive Agent Carter. _British_ Agent Carter, with the accent and everything. Agent Peggy Carter, probably the most beautiful woman Angie has ever seen, commanding respect from all the fatheads on the base by refusing anything else from them.

Angie’s known she’s violets for most of her life. She’s stopped trying to pretend she ain’t, ‘cept Sundays at Mass with the neighborhood. But she’d also like to think that being queer weren’t nothing she couldn’t not do her job over. Until Peggy Legs-For-Miles Carter came onto the base to oversee the training, and suddenly Angie can’t tell the pointy end of the syringe from the other.

But at least she’s now got the “proper security clearance” to actually know why they’re playing around in Jersey instead of being sent off to the frontlines. Now the only thing stopping her from understanding what’s going on is that Angie never paid enough attention in school. Things like super soldier serums sounded more like something outta one of Frankie’s dime pulp fiction novels than something the US Army was paying for. It _especially_ don’t sound like something they wanted _her_ for.

From what Erskine had explained - what of it that Angie had understood anyway - the serum worked…. ‘slong as you were a broad. It doesn’t like whatever in the genetic code that guys had that gals didn’t. Or maybe the girls had something the boys ain’t got. Angie didn’t know this part. And anyway, it’s still a theory Erskine’s working on, so none of the other recruits got sent packing just yet, but something about her being “too headstrong to mind her own business” had Angie now on the short list in line for the serum.

She’s pretty sure walking into a table and knocking the paperwork over _again_ is gonna have her on the fast track right back off that list, only girl on it or no. She’s still blurting out apologies when a perfectly manicured hand rests on top of hers on top of one of the files with the big TOP SECRET stamp on it.

“It’s quite all right.” And _damn_ if that lipstick weren’t utterly _sinful_ when those lips curled up in that amused smirk at her. She ducks her head to hide the creeping blush, some mixture of embarrassment at constantly making a fool of herself around Peggy Goddamned Carter ( _sorry, Nonna, extra Hail Mary for that one_ ) and a rush of heat at the way her thoughts tend to drift about that always impeccable lipstick of hers. The arrival of Colonel Phillips spares Angie any further embarrassment, his rough throat clearing more effective than a bucket of ice water.

“If you’re done throwing the reports around, Agent Carter, we can get this meeting started.” Only then does Angie notice Dr. Erskine trailing in behind the Colonel. She swallows hard, hands shaking almost too badly to be of any use in helping restack the fallen pages.

It don’t take a genius to know that the Colonel ain’t too pleased about Erskine insisting on a woman as their first super soldier. Angie likes to think it’s nothing against her personally. Besides, she’s a nurse, not a soldier, and she don’t even really wanna do either if she’s being honest. She’s an _actress_ , or at least trying to be. Kinda hard to land an audition from Camp Lehigh, and anyway most of Broadway was also helping with the war effort. She doesn’t got the legs for the USO kicklines, so she’d gone with the Army Nurse Corps instead.

“Colonel Phillips. Dr. Erskine.” There’s no trace of any of that playfulness in Peg’s voice now. “You already know my thoughts on the matter. I don’t believe we have much more to discuss.”

“Lay it out for me one more time.”

Angie narrows her eyes; just ‘cause he’s in charge don’t mean he’s gotta always be so dismissive. “Guess I’m goin’ then. Sorry ‘bout the mess.” She’s only looking at Peggy for the last bit, gives her best salute, and is almost out the door when Erskine stops her.

“Actually, Lieutenant, you’re going to want to hear this part.” If she didn’t know better, she’d swear he’s laughing at her. “We’ve come to a decision for the subject for Project Rebirth.”

He’s doing a great job of hiding all the emotion from his face. Peg and Phillips are just as stone-faced. Angie feels her heart drop into her shoes. She knew this wasn’t gonna work out. She’s always too dramatic or not dramatic enough or too loud or too short or too queer to get the part in anything. She’s not even sure she _wants_ this role, but now that she knows she ain’t ever gonna get off this base and out there to help…. She tells herself it’s just the rejection that hurts, not that she wants to get poked and prodded and turned into some kinda science experiment.

She’s ready to stutter out an excuse to get outta there when Erskine gives her some kinda significant look and everything kinda just…. freezes. Maybe the Colonel is giving her some official crap, and maybe Erskine gives her the science bit, but her brain is sorta stuck on the smile shining through Peg’s usual British stiff upper lip nonsense and _they actually picked her._

“You can still say no, Lieutenant Martinelli,” Peggy is saying, and Angie can’t do nothing but blink stupidly at her (not that she can ever do much else where Agent British and Dangerous is concerned).

“No,” Angie echoes, then her eyes widen. “No! I mean, no I don’t wanna say no.” Her cheeks flare. “Are you _sure_ about this? I don’t wanna say you don’t know what you’re doing or nothing, but you really meant to find me and not Gloria or Colleen or someone else that’s been doin’ this longer’n I have?”

Now Erskine is _definitely_ laughing at her. Angie actually bites down on her tongue to stop the babbling before she can say something else she’ll regret, like queer gals from Brooklyn don’t become super soldiers or why not pick Peggy instead or don’t you gotta have some kinda proper training to go out and fight?

“I’m looking for qualities beyond the physical,” he replies, then pulls a face and amends, “except the candidate _must_ be female, I really do insist.” Phillips huffs unhappily, but other’n crossing his arms, he don’t object no more.

“I gotta be honest, sir,” Angie says, ignoring the smart part of her head yelling _shut up shut up shut up and take it_ at her, “I only enlisted ‘cos my brothers all did and I couldn’t stand the empty house no more. I’m no soldier, I’m just a Brooklyn girl tryin’ to get my name in lights at the Gershwin.”

“Ah! And that’s _exactly_ why I want you for the project. The nurse who joined up because she couldn’t let her brothers do all the work in the war.”

She don’t correct him that a large part in deciding to enlist was her ma catching her with Carol down the street and needing to get a place to stay outta the house. Less he knows about that, the better. “What about Peg--er, Agent Carter, then?” she tries instead, forcing herself not to look at Peggy. “She’s bigger ‘n stronger ‘n braver than me, _and_ she’s the best damn codebreaker on this base.”

“Lieutenant--”

“My dear, the more you insist you aren’t worthy, the more I think you are.” Erskine cuts Peggy off before she can reply.

Never one to be silenced so easily, Peg easily slides in a, “I think you’re more qualified than I could ever be,” thoroughly shutting up all of Angie’s protests by making her stomach flip worse than the Coney Island Cyclone.

 

* * *

 

 

Erskine comes to visit the night before the Procedure.

All the other recruits and nurses finally got sent packing, leaving Angie alone in the normally loud and gossip-filled barracks. She’s been pretending to paint her nails for the last hour, almost feeling bad for not returning the polish to Gloria before she got shipped out (and that was a resounding _almost_ , ‘cos Angie’s still pretty sure Gloria’s responsible for her missing hair pins).

“May I?” At her nod, he steps into the room, footsteps echoing in the big empty space. “Can’t sleep?”

She snorts, rolling onto her back on the lumpy cot. “Not really tryin,’ t’be honest.” Then she notices the bottle in his hand, and sits up eagerly onto her elbows. “Hope you were plannin’ on sharing that.”

“This is from Augsburg, my city,” he replies, sitting down on the empty bunk next to hers. “Do you still not know why I chose you, why Agent Carter spoke up so highly of you?”

Figuring she was gonna have to earn the booze by being honest, Angie flops back down onto her back. “Serum don’t work proper on fellas, works on gals. I’m a gal, ‘n you think tryin’ to break into the file room means somethin’ ‘bout the kinda gal I am.”

“People like to forget the first country the Nazis invaded was their own.” At Angie’s impatient look, he gestures with the bottle. “Hitler sends the head of HYDRA, his research division, to me, a man by the name of Johann Schmidt. When he hears about my formula and what it can do, he cannot resist.”

Angie frowns. “You said it don’t work on guys.”

“I did say that.” Erskine looks away, and Angie briefly regrets the accusatory tone she took with him. “It made him stronger, but… there were other… effects. The serum was not ready. My preliminary tests had shown poor response in most of the mice we used as subjects. But more important, the man himself. The serum amplifies everything--”

“Ya told me this part,” she interrupts again. “Good gets great, but bad gets real bad. I’m guessin’ this Schmidt guy wasn’t exactly a Boy Scout?”

Erskine laughs, shaking his head. “Not exactly, no.” His expression sobers. “Whatever happens tomorrow, you must promise me one thing. They are not going to make it easy for you out there. They wanted an army of soldiers, and we are giving them an extraordinary woman instead. You must stay who you are, Angie.”

Angie gives him a solemn nod, then raises an eyebrow and gestures at the bottle. “Ya gonna share that now or what?” She eagerly grabs the glass he holds out. “To extraordinary women, then?”

They clink the glasses together, before Erskine says, “Oh wait, wait, what am I doing? No. You have a procedure tomorrow. No fluids.”

“You gotta be kiddin’ me.” But she don’t try to hang onto the glass when he takes it away, only makes a grunt of protest when he pours hers into his own. “Ya’d better save some for me after if you’re gonna drink it in front a me now.”

She narrows her eyes at his, “I don’t have a procedure tomorrow,” and with that he takes his leave.

“Hey, Mr. Scientist,” she calls after him. “I like schnapps. Way I figure, you owe me a replacement drink for that.”

 

* * *

 

The cab ride with Agent “Too Attractive for It to be This Early” Carter has got to be harder on Angie’s nerves than the Procedure could ever hope to be. Her dress blues feel stiff and itchy. The gold buttons are much too shiny; they just make her so painfully aware at the little use this uniform ever got. Her tie might as well be choking her, for as little good as it does to stop her nervous babbling.

“I know this neighborhood!” She leans her upper body toward the window, only barely stopping herself from pressing her hands against the glass. “My cousin Vinny got beat up in that alley. Cousin Ralphie got hit by a bus right by that newsstand.” She points. “An’ that parking lot is where my brother Frankie got revenge on the good-for-nothin’s that jumped Vinny.” More buildings roll past the window. Angie’s pretty sure there ain’t any secret labs in Brooklyn, but she delights in the familiarity while it lasts.

“I used to work at that diner, ‘fore I moved out and got a job at the L&L.” She finally looks back over at Peggy, who instead of glaring at her to _shut her yap already_ , is giving her that weird sorta not-a-smile-but-totally-a-smile-if-you’re-British that makes Angie’s heart do funny things and makes her stomach flutter worse’n that time she got caught stealing the cooking wine to try an impress a girl.

“You worked at a diner?” she asks, like that’s the most interesting thing she’s heard all day.

Angie nods, gesturing wildly. “Only until Broadway calls. I’m tellin’ ya, English, one day you’re gonna see my name in lights at the Gershwin.”

“One day, I certainly shall,” says Peggy, giving her an _actual genuine bonafide smile._ “I’m sure you are an exquisite actress.”

“Broadway ain’t doin’ much now with this stupid war on.” Angie tries not to sound bitter, but you hear enough “maybe next time”s and you start wondering what the gals that get the roles got that you don’t.

“That doesn’t mean you should give up on your dream.” Peggy’s giving her that weird look again, the one that should show more emotion if she weren’t so good at hiding it, but Angie’s starting to learn how to read the tiny shifts in Peg’s expression.

“Dreamin’s for after the war. Nothin’ else seems that important.”

After the war, she’ll become an actress for sure. Super soldier or not. Maybe she’ll only be able to get a job in a Coney Island Freak Show if the serum messes her up like it did that Schmidt guy, but at least it’s work. Honest work, too, and then she’d get outta all the questions at Sunday dinners why she ain’t brought a man home yet.

The budding panic must show on her face. She nearly jumps out of her skin at the light touch on her thigh. “I know a little of what that’s like.” And Angie wants to kick herself because _of course_ Peggy gets that; England’s been at this long before Pearl Harbor brought America’s head out of its ass. “It seems like it’ll never happen, and yet if you don’t dream, then what’s the point of it all?”

Before Angie can do something stupid, like ask what Peggy’s dream for after the war is, the cab comes to a stop. Peggy slides all elegantly out of the cab and stands on the curb waiting for her. Angie feels like a clumsy baby deer tumbling out after her. Her thigh feels like it’s burning where Peggy’s hand was.

“What’re we doin’ here?” The sign on the door reads “Brooklyn Antiques,” and Angie must’ve passed by this spot dozens of times without seeing nothing out of the ordinary.

Instead of answering her proper, Peggy just gestures her to follow into the shop. The inside looks just as uninteresting as the outside, right down to the dowdy old lady shopkeeper.

But that’s where the normalcy ends, when Agent Carter straightens and gives what’s clearly a code phrase - “Wonderful weather we’re having.” “Yes, but I always carry an umbrella.” - and a bookcase opens up to show some kinda secret underground mad science lab. Erskine is there, below, prepping a scary-looking table that reminds Angie rather uncomfortably of the time she had to read _Frankenstein_ for class.

Peggy’s looking at her again, and something in those unreadable brown eyes makes her square her shoulders and step first down the metal stairs toward the creepy bed. Erskine is just as hard to read, and if everyone would quit staring at her like she was gonna turn tail and run, Angie would feel so much better about all of this.

“Good morning.” Erskine smiles at her, and as she shakes his hand a flashbulb goes off. Great. Press’s here too. “Please. Not now.” He seems just as thrilled with the photographer as she does, and Angie finds it comforting that it weren’t his idea to let the press in. “I need you to take off your hat, blazer, tie, and unbutton your shirt halfway.”

Angie tries her hardest to not look at Peggy as she does what the doc says, sure only wishful thinking has her hearing the uncomfortable cough from behind her. One of the nurses drags over a chair so she can get onto the intimidating table.

“Comfortable?” Erskine has gotta be trying to make her mad so she stops being scared of coming out like Schmidt.

“Ya bring me any schnapps for after you’re done pokin’ at me?”

He gives a good natured chuckle at her, then turns to the people behind him. “Mr. Stark! How are your levels?”

“Levels at one hundred percent! And you must be the lucky dame. Howard Stark, at your service.” The man smiles at her, and Angie manages a grimace in response. She never did like a man in a mustache. Sensing she isn’t gonna respond, he steps away to fiddle with one of the machines.

“Agent Carter, don’t you think you would be more comfortable in the booth?” Angie wants to protest, wants Peggy to be there to hold her hand for this part, but she says nothing and listens to the clack clack of Peggy’s heels as she heads back up that metal staircase.

Erskine is talking to the assembled crowd, something about injections and vita rays, but all Angie can think is _damn, I shoulda asked for a kiss for good luck._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea for the serum only working properly on females came from lithosaurus' fic "Mouse Cage," and was used with permission. Much of Erskine's dialogue came from bastardizing direct quotes in order to fit the situation - no way Angie sits quietly and lets him monologue at her. 
> 
> I toyed with the idea of genderswapping the Red Skull before changing my mind; the only core detail of the story being altered is Angie getting the serum instead of Steve, who is stuck being labeled 4F due to Erskine not pulling him into Project Rebirth. Whereas for now the fic is sticking closely to the TFA canon, it will deviate in significant ways once Angie has the serum.
> 
> This is posted early because I have zero chill. Updates from this point will stick to Tuesdays and Thursdays with the occasional maybe bonus Saturday (but that also might just be interludes or short bits that disrupted the flow too badly but I wanted to share anyway).


	3. 02. i'll bring the cadillac if you bring the rum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Angela, are you okay in there?” 
> 
> “Only ma and nonna get to call me Angela, Mr. Scientist.”
> 
> She can practically feel the eyeroll she gets, even if she can’t really see nothing through the tinted glass. It gets real bright when Stark turns on the vita rays, but it don’t start to hurt until she hears the call of “fifty percent…. sixty….” by seventy she can’t help but yell from the pain. It feels like all her muscles were lit on fire then scraped off.
> 
> “Angela!”
> 
> \--
> 
> or, the one where Angie gets the serum and things don’t really go as planned

Angie’s not exactly fond of needles. She’s not _afraid_ of ‘em, by any means, but she just don’t really _like_ ‘em. The serum itself kinda makes her think of how long it’s been since she’s had a glass of blue Kool-Aid, what with all the rationing and waste of sugar into the drink. 

Without any preamble, one of the nurses (one Angie hasn’t met before, so she can’t go asking about where Gloria ended up to return the polish or see about those hairpins) sticks a syringe into her upper arm. Angie winces and squints at Erskine. “That weren’t so bad.”

“That was penicillin.” 

Oh. Well that explained it. The metal arms awkwardly pressed into her blouse push into her skin, and two more flip over onto her upper arms. Angie grinds her teeth to prevent calling out when the serum is injected into her muscles. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, she’ll never complain about getting blood drawn again after this. 

The whole table flips her upright. Angie catches a glimpse of Peggy’s worried face up in the peanut gallery watching before the thing closes around her into some weird pod. Someone taps on the glass, making her flinch at the overly loud noise.

“Angela, are you okay in there?”

“Only ma and nonna get to call me Angela, Mr. Scientist.”

She can practically feel the eyeroll she gets, even if she can’t really see nothing through the tinted glass. It gets real bright when Stark turns on the vita rays, but it don’t start to hurt until she hears the call of “fifty percent…. sixty….” by seventy she can’t help but yell from the pain. It feels like all her muscles were lit on fire then scraped off. 

“Angela!”

“Shut it down! _Shut it down_!” 

“Kill the reactor, Mr. Stark! _Kill the reactor_!” 

“ _No_!” Angie clenches her fists so hard her nails dig roughly into her palms, distracting from the searing pain rippling through her chest. Comforted by Agent Carter’s concern, she unclenches her jaw. “Don’t! _I can do this_!” 

The machine goes to full capacity, and Angie somehow manages to keep quiet while it runs. She can hear Stark’s machines shorting out one by one, somehow, over the roaring in her ears. Then everything goes dark for a bit. 

Next thing she knows, the pod is opening up around her, leaving her half-dressed and chest heaving for the audience. Erskine and Stark are by her side so fast she musta blinked, helping her down outta the pod. Then Peggy is suddenly there in front of her, all big brown eyes and sinful red lips and _holy hell_ how did she manage to get more gorgeous while Angie was the one being stuck full of super soldier serum? 

“How d’you feel?” And _lord help her_ that breathy voice was almost more than she could bear, not to mention she had to be imagining the way Peggy was having a hard time keeping her eyes on her face. 

“Like I got stuck with a buncha needles, how ‘bout you, English?” She wants to sound cheeky, but she still can’t catch her breath well enough to really get the sass through. 

Peggy’s face breaks into this big, relieved smile, and she reaches out to grab Angie’s arm to steady her - and if maybe Angie notices that her thumb gently strokes the skin there where the needles went, well, she don’t say nothing ‘cos she’d rather pretend she didn’t imagine it. 

Then all hell breaks loose. 

Angie don’t even have time to rebutton her shirt when the gallery _explodes_. She gasps, because _Peggy had been up there not two minutes ago_. Someone screams, then there’s two gunshots, and Erskine is falling falling falling, but Angie only has eyes for Peggy, who has her own gun out faster than she could even see where the hell she’d pulled it from, and Peggy’s running after him, so Angie only does what’s natural and runs after her. 

She should still be sore from the procedure, but forcing her muscles to flex only eases the itchy feeling under her skin. She _runs_ , with more ease than she’s ever had before, and she liked to play with her brothers and cousins in the streets even when they tried to keep her out of it for being a girl, and she gave as good as she got. 

Angie passes a fallen MP, catches up to Peggy as they bound through the hidden bookcase-door, and takes a moment to be sad about the weird old lady also fallen victim to the spy. Gunshots outside spur her into running again, ignoring the way her stockings stretch painfully until they tear around her bulging calf muscles and the slight stinging with each step since she hadn’t bothered to put on her discarded pumps. 

She bursts through the door to see Peggy taking another shot at a taxi, then _continuing to fire as it comes right at her._

“English!” Angie acts on instinct, throwing herself at Peggy to knock her out of the way. 

“ _I had him_!” If there weren’t a HYDRA spy taking off down the road in a big stupid taxi cab with bullet holes in it, Angie coulda kissed Peggy for that look she was getting. 

“Sorry!” 

She takes off running after the cab, actually physically _leaping over cars_ to keep up in the traffic, the bright yellow sticking out worse’n a basil leaf in tomato sauce. If she weren’t kinda _really scared for her life_ or nothing, this might actually be kinda fun, sprinting faster than she ever thought possible - if Vinnie could only see her now, she’d absolutely trump him at baseball - and she knows these streets, knows that if she cuts through this alley here, she’ll be able to head off the taxi---if she don’t get hit by a car first. 

“Sorry! Sorry! Comin’ through!” 

She jumps forward and grabs onto the cab, clinging for dear life onto the roof as it goes flying around a corner and “Jesus, mister, who the _hell_ taught you how to drive this thing?!” 

He don’t seem to find her very funny, if the shots firing through the damn roof are anything to go off of. 

Angie huffs, muttering, “Ralphie woulda even laughed at that one,” and rolls to the side to avoid getting more holes poked into her today. The car pulls too sharply around the next bend, so Angie lets go before the stupid thing can roll on top of her. “Hey! Watch it!” She tumbles tits over ass until she can finally get her feet back under her, to see the rotten fathead she’s supposed to be chasing has his hands on a _kid_. 

Her jaw tightens. Even in her neighborhood, where the men in the pretty suits did some very not pretty things, everyone knew _you did not mess with kids_. “Let ‘im go! He’s got nothin’ to do with this.”  She takes a menacing step forward, never more in her life wanting to deck someone so hard. 

The gun fires, but he’s outta rounds so nothing happens. Angie gives him a feral grin and takes off running again, but he tosses the kid into the river before she gets there in time. 

“Go get’im! I can swim!” 

God bless mandatory swim classes. For more than just that kid’s sake. 

Her guy’s in some kinda underwater plane, but she can catch it just fine. It’s only later that she thinks she kinda almost wishes she hadn’t. 

In the end, the guy crunches a cyanide tooth, the last vial of the serum lays broken on the pier, and she’s staring numbly at her hands when Agent Carter catches up with the rest of the SSR. 

“He…. He killed himself,” Angie whispers, blinking once and staring at Peggy’s face. “I couldn’t…. I couldn’t stop him.”

She doesn’t notice the tears streaming down her face until Peggy’s arms are wrapped securely around her tightly muscled frame, strong shoulders heaving with the weight of everything she’s just seen. Till now, the War’s kinda been an abstract thing. Boys pretending they’re men go off to fight, some come back with parts missing, some come back in a box, and some don’t come back at all. It’s all _over there_ , not here, on American soil, in Angie’s old stomping grounds. 

She buries her face into Peggy’s neck and sobs. 

* * *

The following day is a blur. She remembers how warm Peggy’s hands were when they grip at her shoulders to snap her out of her daze. She remembers arguing with Howard about _yes I can tell a straight-eight engine from a hit-and-miss and this ain’t neither so shut your yapping and let’s tear this thing apart_ and the subsequent sparking in their faces when it turned out they really don’t understand HYDRA’s tech. She remembers having more blood drawn than she thought should be allowed in one sitting, nearly fainting into Peggy’s arms when she tried to stand too quick. 

She remembers Phillips basically telling her to her face that without Erskine, she’s a useless experiment. 

She remembers Senator Brandt appealing to the part of her that wants so desperately to be an actress, remembers him promising her she’d get her name and face in the paper every day if she wanted. Kinda hard to say no to that when her own face is smiling all deadly back at her from the front page of the _New York Examiner_. 

Somehow none of that really adds up to standing backstage of her own damn USO show, decked out in a weird cross between Rosie the Riveter and a star-spangled soldier. Angie smooths the layers of tulle in her skirt flat with one gloved hand, glad they’d at least listened to her and given her leather gloves instead of satin if they insist she have a big shield to hang onto. 

_Why do I gotta have a shield? I’m not fightin’! Gimmie a wrench, I’m supposed to be inspiring the women to work, ain’t I?_

But they’d refused, leaving her to tinker with the broken-down motorcycle they let her lift in the show until she had the engine purring like the stray cat she liked to feed outside her apartment. Took a couple months, then they let her complain till she was near blue in the face that she wanted to ride it on stage (she did get to drive it across a movie set, only once, however, and that weren’t nothing). 

And her name’s in lights now, across the country. ‘Course, it ain’t _exactly_ her name, but _Captain America_ is a good a place as any to start. 

(That’d been another fight, too, between the senator and…. well she weren’t sure, but whoever it was hated the idea of a second lieutenant nurse getting promoted to a captain in order to wear the good stockings. But what can you do, when Miss America is taken by the pageant gals, and Madame America just don’t sound right? Might as well be a pageant girl; she’s now officially taken more pictures with other people’s babies than she’s got cousins, which is really saying something - the Martinellis have a _lot_ of cousins.)

The showgirls are fun, too, don’t get her wrong. They’re the type of girls she wanted to be, before Erskine and the SSR and Peggy “Too Good to Last” Carter. Hell, they’re the kinda girls she wouldn’t have minded fooling around in the dressing rooms with, until her brain got real stuck on a slightly darker shade of red lipstick and immaculate brunette curls in the face of a car exploding behind her. Now she just gives a shy smile and a shake of her head, “maybe next time”s written in her eyes but the girls all know she’s stuck on a gal. They don’t talk about it. They don’t talk about much, really, not the War, not Erskine, not that Angie would do so much better on a factory line than a kickline. 

That’s really what bugs her about this whole deal. They’re so happy to show her doing all the heavy lifting on a film set of a production line, but they won’t let her go to the factories in her downtime, won’t let her fix the engines on the tour bus when they break down, and they especially won’t let her punch out their Hitler in the stage show (they let the gaggle of soldiers that run across with newly-minted weapons do that, and they like to switch off who does it each time to mess with Joe, the poor sod that has to play Hitler). She does kinda like when the kids try’n warn her about Joe coming across behind the dancers, before the boys all run to her defense like she couldn’t take old Adolf down herself if she wanted. 

All of that she could handle. It’s that she finally got that glass of schnapps, and it don’t do _nothing_ for her anymore. Stupid serum, making her better and stronger and now incapable of getting drunk no matter how hard she tries (and believe her, she’s tried). 

She don’t know whose _wonderful_ idea it was - her money’s on the Senator - but she already knows before it starts that putting on the song and dance routine to sell war bonds to the boys overseas ain’t gonna go over so great. There’s no kids on the front lines to delight in the cheesy lines she’s gotta recite, and why would they try and sell war bonds to the soldiers anyhow? The whole thing is awful. 

She’s not a soldier, or Rosie the Riveter, or a dame to make ‘em forget for a night that they’re stuck out as fodder in someone else’s war. They like the kicklines, if the wolf whistles and cat calls are anything to go by, but as soon as it’s just Angie on stage, things go pretty sour pretty fast. Her big stage grin is getting faker and faker by the minute for each invitation into a private tent she gets, then one of the girls takes pity on her and brings the lineup back out for the encore so she can dash offstage and get outta the limelight. 

Howard Stark of all people finds her afterward, hiding on the steps of the stage from the rain pouring down. “Hey, Cap.”

“What’re you doin’ here, Stark?” She tilts her head to the side, squinting at him.

He shrugs at her. “I was in the country, thought I’d catch the show.” He says it like Italy’s a small place or something. Angie considers telling him as much, but she holds her tongue. She’s kinda surprised at how glad she is to see him, even if she’s heard Peggy call him a wanker enough times that no other moniker fits him as well. 

“Where’s Peg--er, Agent Carter? Thought she’d maybe come see it, too.” If her tone sounds a bit too longing or a bit too put out, well, Howard doesn’t comment on that bit. Actually, his whole demeanor changes so suddenly that Angie gets instantly suspicious. “What? Mr. Stark, ya gotta tell me now.” 

“Schmidt sent out a force. They sent the 107th after them. Two hundred men…. and Peg, well, she went out when she wasn’t supposed to, insisting she was the best one to keep decoding the transmissions.” Angie stops breathing for a moment, her heart stalling in her chest. “Only fifty men came back. That was your audience. Everyone else was killed or captured. They’ve been through worse than most.” 

He buries his hands into his pockets, looking almost ashamed to have to give her the information. Angie gapes at him, then takes off running for Phillips’ tent, Howard not too far on her heels. 

“Colonel! Colonel!” 

“Well, if it isn’t the star spangled gal with a plan. What’s your plan, Captain America?” 

“The 107th.” She lays her palms flat on his desk. “I need to know what you’re doin’ to get ‘em out. You can’t leave Peg--them with HYDRA. You can’t.” 

“You don’t get to give me orders, little lady.” He stands, turning his back on her. Angie grinds her teeth. She’s _so tired_ of people ignoring her because she’s stuck doing the song and dance routine instead of doing something more useful. Even nursing was better than this. 

“What’re you doin’ to get ‘em out?”

“It’s called winning the war. They’re thirty miles behind the lines. We’d lose more men than we’d save. I don’t expect you to understand. You’re a chorus girl.”

She sees the map on the wall, the base with the captured soldiers - _and Peggy_ \- clearly marked. “I understand just fine.” 

“Go understand it somewhere else. If I’m reading the posters right, you’ve got somewhere to be in thirty minutes.” 

“....Yeah.” She looks at Howard, jerking her head at the door. “C’mon, Stark, you wanted to meet the girls, right?” 

He eagerly follows her out after that, but stops when she whirls around and gives him a fierce look. “You still got that plane? Can you get me as close as possible to that base?” 

“O’course, but what’re you gonna do, walk in and sass the Red Skull into letting Peggy go?” 

She sticks her tongue out at him. “It’s workin’ on you, ain’t it?” Her impish smile fades quickly. “You knew Erskine too. This ain’t what he wanted for me. I can do this, Howard. I at least owe it to English to try.” 

He debates for a moment before shaking his head at her. “All right. You go save Peg so she can break my nose for agreeing to do this. You got yourself a pilot.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies that this chapter kind of follows closely to the scenes in TFA. It starts to deviate from this point.


	4. 03. follow the beat and let it ring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sneaking through the base is almost comically easy. The big metal helmets on the guys might make ‘em partially bulletproof, but they make ‘em easier to slam on the head and knock out cold. She almost feels bad, ‘cept that they’re Nazis and HYDRA and, oh yeah, _responsible for holding Peggy hostage._
> 
> These guys killed Erskine, she reminds herself, and hits the next few guys a bit harder than necessary.
> 
> \--
> 
> or, the one where Captain America saves the day

She bails out of the plane before they’re over the base to get him outta the enemy fire. Sticking her own neck out - literally - is one thing, but Stark ain’t a soldier either, and she can’t ask him to pretend. Funny thing, Angie’s never jumped out of a plane before, and if it weren’t for the anti-aircraft fire coming at the plane, she might almost call it an enjoyable experience.

With the wind roaring in her ears, she can almost ignore her heart trying to pound out of her chest, forget the _pink pink pink_ of bullets raining offa Stark’s fancy new metal alloy plane, or even swallow the worry down of the thought that _Peggy might not be alive in there_ (that thought gets shut right down before she can dwell on it; so help her if English went and got herself killed by Nazis, Angie will bring her back to life just to yell at her for being so stupid).

At least she don’t land in a tree.

She takes only a second to lament not changing outta her ridiculous getup before taking off running toward a supply truck (if anyone decides now’s a good time to have a laugh that, _yes_ , they did have her in star-spangled knickers to match the skirt, well, maybe that shield might have some kinda use shuttin’ ‘em up). It’s almost laughably easy to haul herself up into the bed; Angie thinks she probably could’ve done it even before the serum, after climbing around on fire escapes most of her life.

“Hey, fellas,” she chirps cheerily to the HYDRA agents already inside the truck. They don’t even try and come after her, leaving her totally free to chuck ‘em out the back and sit tight to get past the big scary gate around the base. The trunk rumbles along, hopefully not straight into some locked garage, for a while. Angie has just long enough to wonder at how much of an idiot she is for trying this before it comes to a halt, brakes squealing.

_I coulda done a better job on those._

She pokes her head outta the canvas flap, ducking right back at the sight of a HYDRA goon patrolling. A smack with the shield to his stupid scary face mask has him out cold. She throws him into the truck bed and runs off.

After that near hitch, sneaking through the base is almost comically easy. The big metal helmets on the guys might make ‘em partially bulletproof, but they make ‘em easier to slam on the head and knock out cold. She almost feels bad, ‘cept that they’re Nazis and HYDRA and, oh yeah, _responsible for holding Peggy hostage_.

These guys killed Erskine, she reminds herself, and hits the next few guys a bit harder than necessary.

This place might’ve been a warehouse of some kind before HYDRA got ahold of it. There’s engines and machinery around that Angie don’t really have time to mess with to see if she understands at all. She does manage to pocket some weird glowing battery looking thing, see if maybe Stark can figure out what the hell HYDRA is doing out here.

The cell block has a lot less guards than she’s expecting. Fatheads. Probably think no one can manage to get this far, or none of the prisoners will be able to cause any trouble. Honestly, Angie half expects to find Peggy already freeing everyone herself by the time Angie comes running in to save the day.

The last guard goes down like a sack of flour, the keys sitting all nice and obvious on his belt. She jumps down into the cell, grinning broadly at the POWs.

A man with a mustache more impressive than Howard’s and a bowler hat that looks real silly way out here gives her a funny look, while the colored man next to him goes, “Who’re you supposed to be?”

“Don’t you fellas watch the pictures? I’m Captain America!” She gives a cheeky salute and marches over to unlock the door, handing the keys off to the nice colored man. “Get everyone outta here, don’t care what side. No one deserves this.” Turning to the first man, “Hey, Mr. Derby, ya seen a woman around? English, supposed ta be keepin’ her nose outta this business?”

“Agent Carter? They took her to interrogation, back that a’way.” Angie turns to run off, but the man continues, “Wait! Plenty of good men got taken that way, ain’t none of them come back.”

“Good thing I’m not lookin’ for a man, then,” Angie calls back, saluting them once more as she heads out into another hallway. She hears the men take off for the exit, figuring the resulting firefight will probably work in her favor (she ignores the uncomfortable knowledge that some of them won’t make it back; she can’t mourn lives not even lost yet).

A tiny man in a traveling coat and hat, looking way outta place around these parts, sees her coming and shuffles out quickly the other way. Angie glares at him, but a low moan from the room he left sends her following that instead.

The sight nearly rends her heart in two.

There’s Peggy “Beautiful and Headstrong” Carter, slumped over in a chair, her brunette curls hanging limply around her face. “Back so soon?” Angie never _ever_ wants to hear that tone from Peggy again, dark and menacing and laced through so thick with pain. But she _really_ never wants to see that look on her face again when that normally gorgeous, pristine face tilts up at her, coated in gore and wearing the worst look of _absolute disgust and hatred_ Angie has ever seen on any person.

The hateful expression clears to confusion, then surprise, once Peggy finally takes note that it’s Captain America, not Arnim Zola, who came stumbling into the room.

“ _English_.” Angie can barely breathe, her heart constricting so painfully in her chest. Peggy gives her a bloodied grin and pulls her chafed wrists forward, free of their bonds. Angie lets out a near-hysterical laugh. “English, you’re somethin’ else. Let’s get outta here ‘fore someone else comes to save you.”

* * *

They make it out of the base with almost 400 prisoners.

Angie gets her first glimpse of Schmidt, and she now understands why they call him the Red Skull. She also now gets what Erskine had meant by “other effects” from the serum’s bad reaction to fellas. Yeesh, she’s normally glad she’s a gal, but seeing _that_ made her _especially_ glad she’s not a fella.

She don’t wanna have to face him again, but one look at Peggy’s bloodied face on the march back to camp has her grinding her teeth in fury. She sees him again, he’s not gettin’ out until she leaves him worse’n Peggy is now.

* * *

Peggy don’t let her clean her up until they’re back at the base. She can barely walk on her own, but she don’t let Angie waste any time (Peg’s words, not hers) in mopping up the blood on her face when some of the men had been POWs much longer’n she had, and she won’t listen to Angie’s arguments that none of _them_ got _tortured_.

So they’re probably a sight to see, more limping than marching back to the base, Angie at the front in her Captain America getup, Peggy’s blood-crusted jacket thrown haphazardly around her shoulders to mute the bright colors of her costume.

The men on the base line the edges of the roadway, cheering when they realize who’s come back this time. “Look, English, they do know how to give a gal a proper welcome.” She nudges the British woman, who gives her an eyeroll. Angie has barely stopped her chatter, keeping a running commentary the entire way back in an effort to keep herself focused on the task at hand and not the horrors she’s just witnessed.

They’re silent when Phillips steps forward, Stark at his side. From the looks of things, they made a bit of a dramatically timed entrance, if the chagrined look on Stark’s face were anything to go by. Stark gives her a tiny finger wave. She gives him a grateful smile.

Angie straightens as best she can, gives a proper salute to the general, but she don’t let go of Peggy, not yet. “Colonel. I’ll surrender soon ‘s I get Agent Carter cleaned up, promise.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Some ‘a these other guys need help, too.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Phillips gives her a hard look. She swallows, but his attention turns to the woman at her side, who stiffens and gives him the sternest look she can muster given she’s half draped over Angie and has dried blood over much of her face. “Agent Carter, I distinctly recall tellin’ you _not_ to leave this camp under any circumstances until I said so.”

“Sir, with all due respect, --”

“Did I ask for your opinion?” His face softens, only slightly, and if Angie hadn’t been glaring right at him she mighta missed it. Now she was just sore he was giving Peg a big public reprimand and taking all the fun out of her yelling at her later.  “You’re lucky Cap here has a big crush on you or you’d still be rotting in that HYDRA base.” Her heart _pounds_. Was she really that obvious? She can’t bear to look at Peggy’s face, don’t wanna see her reaction. “Go get cleaned up. I expect a full report in a couple hours.”

Angie drags her off to the medical tent before she can dig herself a deeper hole. “C’mon, English, I’m the best nurse in the USO.”

They pass by Howard, who is doing a valiant job of keeping the General occupied (and annoyed) enough to forget he’s sore with them. He catches her eye and waggles his eyebrows at her. Great. He’s gonna have something to say about that comment, too.

The medical tent is a flurry of activity when they come in. A small gaggle of nurses points them to a corner secluded by a curtain. It ain’t much for privacy, but at least it’ll stop everyone from staring at her while she does this. None of them offer to help, but that’s got more to do with the fierce look Angie’s giving all of them rather than any true desire to not do their damn jobs properly.

“Jesus, Peggy, what’d they want from you?” Her voice is soft as she gestures for the woman to sit while she grabs some supplies. She don’t know if she really wants to know, but Peggy answers her anyway.

“Same as always. Information.” She shrugs with a small wince. “They were under the mistaken impression that I’d be easier to break than any of the men. _Amateurs_.”

Despite herself, that earns a small chuckle, which fades as soon as she raises a damp cloth to start clearing the blood away. “I bet you sure showed ‘em, English. I can’t even get anythin’ outta you that you don’t wanna share.”

Peggy grabs her hands to still the motion, her face so unbearably open Angie almost can’t stand it. “I’m sorry, Angie. I’m afraid I don’t really make the best sort of friend.”

“Don’t be silly. You just haven’t made the right kinda friends.” Warmth blossoms in her chest at the shy smile she gets in response. “Now hold still so I can get you cleaned up. If they messed up your face, I’m gonna have to go back there and hit ‘em all again.”

“I’m _fine_ , really, it looks worse than it is. Bastards caught me in the temple when they brought me in, it’s nothing.”

“It ain’t nothin’ ‘till I say it’s nothin,’ Pegs, and that’s that.” She fixes her best Martinelli matriarch glare, the one that had Frankie admitting he’d swiped a cannoli before Easter dinner. Peggy “Not Cowed by HYDRA Torture” Carter actually gives her a sheepish grin and stops arguing.

“I’m sorry I missed your show,” she says instead, looking pretty genuine about that, too. “I thought we would be back from the mission in time to see it. We _would_ have been, if those bloody agents hadn’t gotten ahold of our mission plans somehow.”

The warm feeling spreads. She clears her throat to try ‘n stop herself from saying something stupid in response, or offering to give Peggy her own private show, and instead she says, “Ya didn’t miss much. ‘S not really what I pictured, ya know? Three cheers for the women of the war, supportin’ the men by doin’ the jobs they left to pick up arms. Nevermind they won’t let _me_ do any of the work.”

Angie lets out a big sigh. “I’m a fraud, English, and that’s the truth of it. Tellin’ all the wives to get jobs in the factories while I smile and shake a leg instead.”

“You’re not a fraud, Angie. You’re America’s new hope, from what I’ve read. Bond sales increase ten percent in every city you visit. It’s not the front lines, but it’s just as important.”

She should say something about that soft smile she’s getting, about the fluttery thing her stomach keeps doing the more Peggy talks, but she don’t wanna ruin anything between them (she’s been wrong before about a girl’s preferences, and it never works out). So she huffs and shrugs and wipes the blood off the most beautiful, stubborn, headstrong woman she’s ever met so she can see what those good for nothings did to her.

* * *

The story hits the papers in London before they do. Now no one can deny that Captain America proved herself worthy of her mantle, and she’s officially been given clearance to head her own team.

There’s a bar close to the SSR base, popular with the off-duty soldiers, where she heads in and finds Mr. Derby and the others that shared a cell with Peggy. “Hey, fellas.”

They scramble sloppily to their feet to give her a salute, which only makes Angie laugh and give Derby a light punch to the arm. “I’m lookin’ for a team to go beat HYDRA’s face in. You guys in or what?”

“Let me get this straight, we barely got outta there alive, and you want us to go back in?”

“.....Basically, yeah.”

The Englishman quirks a smile at her. “Sounds rather like fun, actually.”

"Hell, I'll always fight " Derby lifts his cup and downs the rest of his beer. "Next round's on me. You in, Cap?"

"Nah, it don't do nothing for me. Sit, I got this one for ya guys."

She waves to the bartender, who stares at the empty mugs in disbelief and brings out the next round. Angie settles in at the bar with her own glass of schnapps, despite what she told Derby, when the whole place goes quiet.

She looks up to see what all the fuss is and her mouth goes dry. There's Peggy "Curves in All the Right Places" Carter, in a dress the same shade as that lipstick Angie's been dreaming about, turning all the heads in the bar as she strides in like she owns the place.

"Captain."

Angie downs the last of her schnapps in the hope that the precious few seconds will let her regain the ability to speak. "Agent Carter. Nice to see you outta the infirmary."

Peggy's smile twitches. No matter how many times she insists she's fine, Angie and the entire nurse corps for the SSR have been keeping her away from her desk. "I've been cleared to return to duty, actually. I hear you're putting a team together."

"Yep!" Her lips smack on the word. "That's them over there, Derby and Frenchie and another English." She waves in the vague direction of the table.

"Does that mean you don't have room for one more?"

Angie's eyes might bug out of her face. "Ya sure, English? Not that I don't want ya around, but last time you went out didn't go so well."

Peggy narrows her eyes. "Are you suggesting I'm incapable of keeping up with your elite team over there?" She arches an eyebrow. Derby started the bar in another chorus of a song about how many things dangle between Hitler's legs. Angie swallows hard.

"Peg, you're more capable than I am to lead this mess. That ain't what I'm sayin'." She huffs unhappily. "I don't wanna be the reason you get hurt again."

"This is my choice, Angie. I've already cleared it with Colonel Phillips."

Angie snorts so hard she almost knocks her glass over. "He said yes?"

Peggy purses her lips together. Angie pretends she's not following the motion carefully. "Howard may have convinced him. Speaking of Howard, he's got some equipment he wants you to try. Meet him at 0800?"

"I'll be there, yeah." She decides to ignore the change of subject. There ain't much else she can say on it anyhow, 'cept that she don't want Peggy by her side, which would be a lie.

Peggy smirks one more time at her. "You should teach them your song, show them all up with your dance routine."

"Aw, English, I'd hate to show off in fronta the new team 'fore we get started."

"Perhaps when this is all over, we'll find a dance hall." With another smile her way that Angie definitely don't watch her lips instead of her eyes, Peggy turns to saunter right on back out. "0800, Captain. Don’t you dare be late."

She jumps when a hand claps her on the shoulder. “Quite a gal ya got there.” Dugan taps his nose, and reaches over her to grab a tray of fresh drinks for the boys. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angie's USO outfit was inspired by some very lovely cosplay photos and a "female Captain America" Google search.


	5. Interlude 1 - Letters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Letters exchanged between Captain America’s USO Tour and the underground SSR base in London.

June 27, 1943

Dear English,

You said I could write you, so here goes nothing.

I’m not sure what I expected when the senator said he’d put my name up in lights, but the name they’ve got flashing ain’t exactly mine. I’m “Captain America” now. Got promoted and everything. Brand new dress blues I don’t get to wear, neither. It’s not really what I pictured, but the senator says this is just as important as fighting.

I think the serum improved my dancing. I’ve finally got the legs for the kicklines, and I’m usually the last one still rehearsing after everyone else collapsed. I gotta say, it’s real weird to get used to.

I guess I’d still rather be here than in the lab.

I gotta get ready for rehearsal, so I’ll end this here.

Yours,

Angie

P.S. They keep giving me more stockings than I can wear, so I’m sending you some. I heard London’s using all their nylon for the war effort, so I figured you could use a fresh pair.

* * *

5 July 1943

My Dear Angie,

   

    Thank you for the stockings, darling, they’re in rather short supply around these parts. I’m sure I’ll be the envy of London wearing them about.

    News of your successful show reached us here, congratulations. I’m told there’s to be a tour? I do hope this letter reaches you before you depart; I’d hate for you to think yours went unanswered.

    I’m afraid I haven’t much to report. I’ve returned to the same sort of work I had been doing before we met.

Best,

Peggy

* * *

July 15th, 1943

Buffalo, NY

English,

    We took the routine on tour. It’s cheesy, I gotta admit. The boys in charge don’t really wanna show off everything the serum did for me, so they’ve got me pretending to turn wrenches to make new fancy weapons for the guys playing soldiers to go off and beat Hitler with.

    They’ve got an old motorbike we’re using as a prop I’ve been trying to fix up in my spare time. The boys all think it’s a lost cause, but I seen worse in the neighborhood still putting around, so we’ll see who gets it right in the end.

    Not like I got anything better to do anyway.

    Fellas that come to the show keep giving me stockings like I need em, so here’s some more for you, Pegs. I couldn’t tell you how long we’re gonna be here, but I’ll tell the post to forward anything from London along for me. It’s strange, but a lotta kids have been writing letters addressed to “Captain America.” The senator hired a team to answer those so I don’t even get to read them, but it’s weird.

    It’s like I ain’t even Captain America, you know? I’m just Angie, not her, not the symbol America really needs right now.

Yours,

Angie

* * *

26 July 1943

My Dear Angie,

   

I don’t think you’re giving yourself enough credit. Captain America is exactly what you make of her. She’s nothing without your input. All the qualities that made Erskine choose you for the project are still within you, and should be rather amplified if I understand correctly, so you’re now an even better woman than you were before.

Never forget that.

I didn’t know you knew your way around an engine. I’d assumed Howard was just showing off in Brooklyn. Where’d you learn?

Best,

Peggy

* * *

August 11th, 1943

Philadelphia, PA

English,

Aw, shucks, did I never tell you my Pa owns a mechanic shop? He taught all my brothers how to take over the business one day, didn’t know I was listening in until he caught me tinkering around one day. Still no progress on the bike, but I swear I’m getting close. It’s hard to order new parts when we’re moving around this much.

The tour’s a real hit with the kids. I think I’ve had more pictures taken with babies now than I ever have in my life, and that’s saying something with the size of my family. The babies don’t like the costume much, I think it’s the mask, so they end up crying and carrying on more often than not by the time I hand them back to their moms.

Even though we haven’t really done anything to hide my identity aside from the mask on stage, I’m usually around without it often enough that my face is getting a little well known. The senator says my name is still “too Italian” to be made public without changing it, but I won’t budge on that one.

They can brand me the hero all they want, but I’m at least keeping my name.

Yours,

Angie

* * *

8 Sept. 1943

My Dear Angie,

I’m afraid I can’t say much about it, but your name may not be “too Italian” for much longer. Keep your eye on the papers, if you haven’t been following them already. I know how busy you must be with all of your performances.

One of your films made it overseas. I dare say it isn’t quite as cheesy as you would have led me to believe, but I stand by my earlier statements that you were born to be an actress.

How goes your motorcycle progress? Howard has been around and I mentioned it to him. He’s promised to supply you with any state-of-the-art parts you should require to finish it. I’ve told him to contact you with details.

Best,

Peggy

* * *

Sept. 29, 1943

Los Angeles, CA

English,

Sorry about how late this is. By now you’ve probably seen I got the motorcycle running like a dream. They won’t let me use it on the stage, but there’s one film reel I got away with it cause the usual director was out sick. He was real steamed when he came back and saw it, but I don’t regret it. It was worth the look on his face, honestly. How this guy managed to get work on a mostly-female production is anyone’s guess. I hope he don’t treat his Ma the way he treats us.

Yours,

Angie

* * *

12 October 1943

My Dear Angie,

I’m leaving London for a mission. I’m not sure when we’ll be back, but I hear you’re coming overseas with your show. I hope to catch it while you’re here, at least to see what the fuss is about.

Best,

Peggy

* * *

October 19, 1943

New York City

English,

I might make it to London before this letter does. I’m trying to convince the fellas in charge that we should stay in London instead of touring the front lines, but they haven’t listened to any of my ideas so far so I’m not holding my breath.

See you soon!

Yours,

Angie

* * *

October 28, 1943

London, England

English,

I don’t know why I’m writing to you now when this is just going to sit on your desk until you get back, but I contacted the office and found out you’re still out on your mission. We leave the city in two days, so I hope you’re back in time that I can at least see you before we’re shipped out again, but just in case, I miss you, English, especially surrounded by a bunch of Englishes.

Yours,

Angie

* * *

November 3, 1943

[REDACTED], Italy

English, you fathead, you weren’t supposed to do something stupid until I got out of show business. I’m gonna go find your English behind and get you out of there just so I can yell at you in person.

In case I don’t make it back and the Colonel found this instead, first off shame on you for reading a lady’s mail. Second don’t blame Howard this was my idea. Third, the hell did you let Peggy go out for???? Don’t think you’re off the hook even when I get her back for us.

Signed,

Captain Freaking America

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I originally hadn't planned on putting dates on the letters until I realized how much it would bother me if I hadn't. Dates pulled from cobbling together the MCU timeline as well as comparing with a timeline of major events in WWII. I am not a historian, so if something looks terribly off feel free to point it out and I'll make corrections accordingly. 
> 
> The shortage of nylon and limited availability of stockings was a genuine thing. Women were encouraged to donate their old stockings so that they could be melted down and reused for ropes or parachutes. Silk or cotton were alternatives to nylon, but silk was preferred for gunpowder pouches and cotton tended to sag around the knees. With limited options and still preferring the look of nylon, women would paint their legs in makeup and use an eyeliner pencil to draw a seam up the backs of their legs. 
> 
> I found V-Mail just as interesting. Photos of the letters were taken and they were shipped overseas as film strips, where they could pack more letters for less bulk and weight, and they were then reprinted at post offices to be sorted. This allowed the letters to be censored where necessary and thwarted spy attempts such as invisible ink, which could not be preserved in the photocopy.


	6. 04. let me show you how to love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Howard, have you seen….” Angie’s heart nearly stops at the clack clack of Peggy’s heels coming toward the lab. She scrambles to try and get her feet before-- “ _Captain_.” --that.
> 
> “Hiya, English.” She rolls onto her back in a last-ditch effort to get offa Stark. “You’re early.”
> 
> \--
> 
> or, the one where the Howling Commandos become a team.

Angie shows up early to Howard’s lab, despite the amount of schnapps she ended up drinking with her new team. It never went to her head, so she isn’t too surprised to wake up blissfully hangover free (she wonders how Derby is faring; he must’ve put down a barrel full of beer by the time they left). 

In her army uniform, she fits in easily on the base. Most of the fellas probably just assume she’s another secretary, can’t possibly be Captain America herself walking straight through to the labs at sunrise. The Colonel’s secretary gives her a nod over her newspaper, which Angie blushes a bit to notice has her face on the front page. “I’m lookin’ for Stark? This him?” 

Private Lorraine waves her off, and Angie pokes her way through the lab. He’s got all kinds of fancy new weapons spread out over some tables. The man himself is fiddling with the glowing blue stuff, behind a blast shield. 

“Schmidt just had that stuff layin’ around,” Angie tells him. She must’ve surprised him;. Stark jumps and hits one of the joysticks. Next thing Angie knows, she’s been blown across the lab, right on top of Howard. 

“Hey, Cap,” Stark says, grinning up at her like this sort of thing happens all the time. “You’re early. Hey, write that down!” He leans over to gesture to his assistant, who is staring slack-jawed with a clipboard hanging loosely in his hands. 

“Hey, Stark,” Angie replies. “Peg said 0800. I kinda counted on getting lost in this place. It’s kinda like a maze in here.” She braces herself up on her hands, now pretty effectively straddling Howard Stark. Boy, if anyone had tried to tell her even six months ago this is where she’d be, she’d have confiscated all the booze in the area. 

“Howard, have you seen….” Angie’s heart nearly stops at the clack clack of Peggy’s heels coming toward the lab. She scrambles to try and get her feet before-- “ _Captain_.” --that. 

“Hiya, English.” She rolls onto her back in a last-ditch effort to get offa Stark. “You’re early.”

“Yes, so it would seem. If you two are _quite_ finished, I believe we have some actual business to discuss? Or if you’d like I can come back later?” 

“Awe, Pegs, don’t be like that.” 

The two of them shuffle to their feet. Angie feels oddly like she’s being scolded. She scuffs her foot against the ground, unable to look Peggy in the eye with that fierce look she’s getting. Stark, either used to getting that school marm look from Peggy or just doesn’t care either way, hops over to one of the tables of weapons and bangs on the stupid tin shield she carried around on tour. 

“I know you don’t like it much, but the shield’s sorta part of your image now. I’ve made some improvements. This one’s electrified on the outside.” He taps on one that reminds her really uncomfortably of the HYDRA helmets. 

“I dunno, Stark, I’d rather it be something easier to hold in one hand.” She looks down the table. All the shields he’s got out on display are just as elaborate as the one he pointed out. Except for… “What’s this one?” She leans to grab a remarkably plain-looking one, which turns out is much lighter than it looks. “What’s this made from?” 

“Oh, that? Vibranium. Rarest metal on earth. What you’ve got there is all we have. Totally vibration-proof.” 

Angie flips it a few times experimentally in her hands. “English, what do you think?” She loops her arm through the straps on it. 

Peggy gives her an odd look. Angie has time to realize she made a big mistake when suddenly Peggy scoops up one of the pistols and _fires at her_. 

She lets out an undignified yelp and ducks behind the shield. It rattles once, twice…. _four times_ in her hands, the bullets hitting the ground harmlessly, before daring to peek out and see Peggy’s face. 

“Yes, I think it works.” She turns to saunter out, and Angie thinks she might be imagining the extra sway in her hips as she moves. 

“I… Engl…. A-Agent Carter, wait!” Angie’s arm gets caught in the straps in her haste to put the shield down and chase after her. Peggy don’t stop. Angie’s pretty sure her heart fell right down into her shoes as she watches her go. She turns to gape at Stark, who looks just as stunned as she does at what just happened. 

Impatient, and more than a little cross that she just screwed things up with English even though it weren’t her fault the stupid tech sent her flying on top of Howard, Angie snaps her fingers in Stark’s face to get his attention. “Can we do somethin’ about my stupid uniform? I want trousers this time. I’m not stompin’ all through Europe in that stupid skirt.” 

* * *

Dum Dum - and, really, why the hell he prefers _Dum Dum_ to _Derby_ she’ll never know - starts calling their little group the “Howling Commandos” after something Junior says. The night before they head out for their first mission, they’re all drinking at that same old pub when someone comes up with the brilliant idea that they all need special code names. They only get as far as Pinky and Happy Sam and Frenchie before Dum Dum tries to call Peg “Miss Union Jack” and she slugs him one. 

Peggy, well on her way to putting away more booze than Dum Dum at the rate she’s going, challenges him to a push up contest to settle the matter of “Peggy’s already a nickname, you ape!” Angie, the only one of them still stone cold sober despite the nearly-empty bottle of schnapps sitting next to her (it still don’t do nothing for her, but she’ll be dead before she stops trying anyway) has been designated the referee of this mess.

Luckily for all of them, it’s gotten late enough that the space has mostly cleared out enough that the bartender don’t give them too much hassle once they explain their wager. Then suddenly what’s left of the bar patrons are putting in on a betting pool to see who’ll last longer, Peg or Dum Dum. Personally, Angie’s gonna have to go with Peg on this one. Dugan might be bigger, but the last time Angie saw that glint in Peggy’s eye, she was firing four rounds at her. 

(They still haven’t talked about it, not that Angie hasn’t tried. She can’t get Peggy alone.) 

“Shall we make this a bit more interesting?” Peggy’s all smug confidence, pulling off her blazer and rolling up her sleeves like she’s about to start a brawl (Angie wouldn’t put it past her). 

“You name it, _Miss Union Jack_.” 

Her eyes narrow. _Uh oh_. He shouldn’t of said that. “One arm only. No switching. First to one hundred?” 

The crowd roars. It’s clear none of them expect either of them to make it that high, but there’s no good way for this to end (unless Peggy wins). Angie absolutely does not want to kiss her in that moment, with her face flushed from drink and competition, and she _definitely_ don’t take a lot of pleasure in knowing that English is probably the sorest loser she’s ever met, and she grew up with a lot of brothers and cousins who might as well have been brothers. 

They agree to terms and then turn to look at Angie expectantly. “Oh, er, yeah, I can count for both of ya, first to a hundred, one arm, no switching. Whenever you’re ready to beat him, English….” 

Dum Dum looks ready to protest, but one glance to the nearly _predatory_ look he’s getting shuts him up just fine. 

Dum Dum don’t make it to a hundred. 

Peggy gets to a deliberate one-oh-seven before she collapses, flushed and sweating and absolutely beaming with triumph. 

“Never speak again, _Timothy_.” 

* * *

The HYDRA bases aren’t all like the first one was. 

Angie’s slowly figuring out how this all works. She lets Peggy take charge more often than not; she’s more of a brawler than a tactician, and she just ends up doing what Peggy says anyway. They have weapons facilities to raid and research facilities to annihilate. 

She _hates_ the research ones. They’re always full of half-man, half-abomination creations that Zola’s been digging his slimy little hands around with. Poor sods that don’t know nothing anymore but screaming out supersonic waves, or ones that Zola literally tore the emotions out of to make ‘em better guards. They always make sure to put extra bullets in the experiments, put those guys out of their misery, and she takes great pleasure in blowing those places to bits. 

It’s the downtime that surprises her. For such a mixed bunch, they fit so well together around their campsites, swapping stories of home and even sometimes talking about what they wanna do when all of this is over. They laugh too hard at Dum Dum’s attempts at jokes, and he continues to fail at getting Peggy a nickname that sticks. He tried calling her “English” once, and she’d hit him hard enough he’d fallen off the log they were using as a bench.

The boys are more concerned about their modesty than either Peggy or Angie, leaving them to share a tent most nights when they make camp. They make a big show about keeping Dugan's smelly arse away from their delicate feminine sensibilities (Peggy's words), but truthfully Angie isn't sure she can handle being that close to Peggy every night without letting something slip. Most nights they're so tired they fall right asleep. 

It's the nights when it's cold and they can't trust to build a fire that really test Angie's control. She and Peggy zip their sleeping bags together on those nights, huddling close to share body heat. Angie don't mention she don't really feel the cold since the serum. She figures Peggy would go all stiff and British on her and insist she'll be fine too if she knew.

And if she wants the excuse to hold Peg close, well, she'll never admit to it. Plus it's not like she wants to share a tent with Dum Dum instead. Guy snores worse’n Frankie with a head cold. 

They’re in Czechoslovakia after blowing up another of Angie’s leads. It’s cold, and it’s snowing, and Angie blew into the place on her repaired motorcycle. The bike’s still loud, even after she and Stark fiddled with it some more back in London, but with the shield on the front and Peggy shooting from the back, it’s one of Angie’s favorite ways to go into a base. ‘Course, it leaves them both crusted with frost and Peggy shivering when they’re out, but no plan is perfect. 

“You’ve got frost in your eyelashes,” Peggy says, grinning at her. She’s flushed with their victory, her chest heaving beneath her tactical gear. She raises a gloved hand to brush at Angie’s cheek. 

“So d’you, English,” she sasses right back, but she don’t do nothing to bat Peg’s hand away. 

“Stark’s got a plane comin’ to get us at 0900,” says Gabe Jones, making the women jump apart. 

“We should set up a camp, get some rest,” Peggy replies, and Dum Dum throws out a cheer. 

Angie gives him a flat look and rolls her eyes, reaching for her tent. “You get first watch for that, Derby.” He shoots her a look she gladly returns, then smirks into the canvas as she pulls the tent out with practiced ease. 

* * *

“Hey, English, ya never did tell me what you were gonna do when the war’s over.” They’re huddled together for warmth, Angie curled around Peggy. For someone so strong and independent and capable, the Englishwoman was surprisingly soft - and really clingy when she sleeps, not that Angie’s complaining. 

“I’m honestly not certain myself,” she replies at length. She stretches and turns so that they’re face to face. “The war’s been my life for so long, it’s hard to imagine doing anything different.” She pauses, giving serious thought to the question. “I’ll stay with the SSR, I suppose, as long as they’ll have me.” 

“They’d be stupid not to.” 

It’s too dark to see for sure, but by the way she ducks her head, Angie thinks Peggy might be blushing slightly. “Yes, well, I can only hope my war record won’t end up too classified to hide my qualifications. What of your plans? Still going to take Broadway by storm? Or back to Hollywood?” 

Angie shifts uncomfortably. “I dunno anymore. Broadway was little Angie Martinelli’s dream. I’m not sure what good Captain America will do with no more HYDRA heads to cut off.” 

Peggy’s eyes narrow at her. “You are more than Captain America, America’s hero,” she says sternly. Angie has that same uncomfortable feeling of being scolded again. “You _are_ little Angie Martinelli, no matter how much the serum enhanced your physique.” She jabs Angie sharply in the chest to emphasize her point. When it seems like she’s gonna do it again, Angie grabs her hand to stop her. Undeterred, Peggy continues, “Captain America may be the symbol, but _you_ , Angie, are the heart.”

“Shut up, English, you talk too much.” Angie buries her head into Peggy’s neck so she won’t see her blushing.

“Oh, hardly.” Peggy sniffs in that posh British way of hers. “You should get some rest. We’ve got that bloody reel to film once we get back to London.” 

* * *

The “bloody reel” they had to film turns out a lot more fun than Angie’s previous propaganda. She don’t have to deal with the sexist LA director way over here, but she thinks (with no small amount of pride) that the Commandos wouldn’t let any of that fly here. 

This one’s a lot less cheesy than all her previous ones. They actually wanna know how they do things in the field, like how they’d taken out the bases in France and Italy, and Angie’s flustered and embarrassed when Happy Sam gives her more credit than she’s due. They get some shots of them marching in front of a screen, some of them looking at a map to set a new course, then Dum Dum says they should try and get Angie and Peggy on the bike. 

“They’re a great team out there,” he insists, “Could take HYDRA down without the rest of us goons if they wanted to.” 

“Shut it, you, we’d be nowhere without you bozos having our six.” Angie shoves him, unaware the cameras are still rolling. Peggy tosses her head and laughs. Gabe stands in the back and shakes his head at them. 

They manage to convince Cap and Peg to reenact how they’d stormed the base, even down to a real swell fake snow effect. Angie shakes her head and fetches her bike from where it’s parked outside. They manage to get it positioned so that they’ve got the shield hooked on the front, Angie’s mask clearly visible above it, and Peggy standing on the back behind her, pistols held out. They can barely balance it while keeping both of them visible for the cameras, and it’s more awkward than it should be with Peggy’s front pressed firmly against Angie’s back and, really, _how is she so soft all the time_? 

They leave the sod playing Hitler outta this one, and don’t put in any other soldiers ‘cept the Commandos. The director wants to focus on the one-oh-seventh, makes sure each of them gets a closeup, no matter how many times they warn him that Dugan’s ugly mug might break their cameras. Angie jokes that at this rate they might as well call up Stark and the Colonel if they really want all of the pieces of their team (she don’t miss the way Peggy stiffens and narrows her eyes when she brings up Stark, so she decides to do it again to see if it happens the same). 

“Hey, English, didn’t Stark make those fancy new pieces for ya? We could totally get him in here givin’ us our supplies. He made most of ‘em anyway.” 

“Howard Stark is an independent contractor. Officially we have little, if any, contact with him.” Peggy’s tone is sharp, not quite at the school marm voice she likes to use when the boys (and Angie; usually Angie) misbehave, but getting pretty darn close. 

“You’re no fun, ya know that, right?” Angie bumps her hip against Peggy’s, laughing at the new revelation. So Stark’s a sore point with English now? She could have some fun with that. Maybe. If Peggy don’t shoot her again. Maybe she won’t mess with that point. 

“I’m plenty fun, thank you very much,” Peggy protests, shoving her right back. “I may not be a mechanic, but I do have plenty of other redeeming qualities.” 

“Like that dancing ability you keep braggin’ about but never shake a leg to back up?”

“Yes, quite like that.” Peggy gives her a long look. “You asked me what I want to do when the war is all over. I think I should very much like to head back to New York and find an underground club and take my best girl dancing.” 

Angie nearly trips over her own feet. She can’t possibly have heard that right, nope, not at all. No way Peggy’s her kinda gal; she’s too pretty and too smart and too British and posh and but what if she did hear that right? “O-oh yeah?” 

She’s getting that look again, the one where Peggy’s smirking just a little bit, and her lipstick is perfect as ever no matter how much they’ve been sweating on this boiling set, and her hair is in perfect victory rolls even though they slept in a tent in Czechoslovakia the night before. “Yes, I think she might enjoy it very much. We’ll have the band play something slow. I think she rather likes when I pull her close.” 

Angie makes a strangled sound, and Peggy saunters off to tease Dum Dum about his bowler hat managing not to fly off on their last air drop. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My best guess at the timeline here has us now to February 1944, so I've neglected to mention what the Commandos did during the holidays (during which time I estimate them as still being in France). 
> 
> The Valkyrie crashed in March 1945, so there's still some wiggle room as to playing around with the group in the War, where the movie gave us an action montage covering a year and a half (Zola was captured in early 1945, for reference, before the invasion of Iwo Jima started, putting it at around January).


	7. 05. why don't you show me how to swing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The place is decked out with more flowers that could’ve possibly come from Brooklyn alone. Her family priest’s standing at the front, grinning at her. That’s when Angie notices the whole one side of the church is full of her family, all murmuring in a mixture of English and Italian to one another. She don’t recognize anyone on the other side, but the softly accented tones make her wonder if she’s still in London, with the Commandos…. 
> 
> \--
> 
> or, the one where Angie has a dream, and Peggy’s lipstick is smudged.

The air smells like flowers. 

Nice ones, too, roses and orchids, and even violets dotted around. Angie smooths imaginary wrinkles from her silk dress, the satin gloves slipping over the material like water. A knock at the door makes her look up, and there’s Nonna, looking happier than at family dinners on Easter. 

“Nonna!” Angie’s up and moving, scooping up her grandmother and twirling her around in delight. Soft Italian reaches her ears, warning her about ruining the dress before the ceremony. Before she can ask what she’s talking about, several of her cousins come barreling in, all dressed to the nines in matching lavender dresses, and grab Angie by the arms and tug her outta the room. Super soldier or not, Angie’s laughing too hard to put up any sort of resistance and lets herself get dragged into the family church, right up to the altar. 

The place is decked out with more flowers that could’ve possibly come from Brooklyn alone. Her family priest’s standing at the front, grinning at her. That’s when Angie notices the whole one side of the church is full of her family, all murmuring in a mixture of English and Italian to one another. She don’t recognize anyone on the other side, but the softly accented tones make her wonder if she’s still in London, with the Commandos…. 

When did she get back to New York? 

She turns to ask Nonna, but her grandmother and cousins have disappeared to take their seats at the front of the church. Angie takes a step forward, and a hush comes over the crowd of people. She turns to see what’s got their attention and her heart jumps into her throat. 

There’s Peggy, coming in from the other side of the church, dressed in a white silk dress with more lace than Angie’s ever seen on a person, her dark hair pinned up sensibly away from her face, red lipstick as impeccable as ever. She smirks at her. “Hello, darling.” 

“Hiya, English.” Angie’s voice nearly gets caught in her throat. “What’s a gal like you doin’ in a place like this?”

“You’re late,” she says as an answer. 

“Nah, you’re just early.” She reaches to gently punch Peggy’s arm, but the Englishwoman takes the chance to loop their arms together instead. 

“Shall we, then? I do believe we’ve kept them waiting long enough.” 

As they step together down the aisle, the walkway seems to lengthen, so they don’t get closer to the priest, only farther and farther away with every step they take. The murmuring starts again, only it sounds off now, more hostile. The violets around the church start to wither, the petals flaking off and dripping harshly to the ground. Peggy’s grip gets painful, her nails digging into her arm through the gloves she’s wearing. 

“English, I don’t like this.” 

“It’s all right, darling, we’re exactly where we belong.” 

The flowers all burst into flame. Angie tries to stop, but Peggy’s tugging insistently at her arm and pulling her down the never ending path where her priest and family wait at the end. “Peggy, I don’t like this. We need to go! What’re…. What’s….” The other Commandos are nowhere in sight. “Where’s Dum Dum and Falsworth? They should be here…” 

“It’s just us I’m afraid.” There’s something sinister about the way she says it, but it’s Peggy, her English, not someone Angie’s ever saw fit to be afraid of, even when she’s firing at her. Her lips twist into a wide smile, not any of the kinds she’s used to seeing, and when did that color start to look more like blood? 

Angie’s shaking her head and pulling at her arm, now desperate to get away. “English! Let me go! We gotta get out of here! _English_!” 

A hand at her shoulder shakes her roughly. Angie slaps the hand away and hauls herself upward, breathing heavily. 

“Angie! Angie, darling, are you all right?” 

“English?” Her eyes dart wildly around the room. She gradually takes notice of the barracks, empty beds, her own trunk off to one side. “What’s…. We’re in London.” 

“Yes, darling, you were shouting.” Peggy comes closer, and Angie notices with a growing sense of horror that she’s got a nice bruise already forming on her arm. 

“Oh no, Peg, I’m so sorry, I didn’t….” 

“Hush, it’s fine; I’m fine. I’m more worried about you. Nightmare? Do you want to talk about it?” Peggy’s still too close to her, all big brown eyes and without her signature lipstick her lips look so pale, so close to her own. 

Angie’s shaking her head before she’s even decided not to mention it - and how the hell does she bring that up anyway? _oh I’m fine, just dreamin’ about us gettin’ hitched and the whole church with all our families in it goin’ right down to hell with us_ \- swallowing hard to buy herself some time before she’s gotta answer. “No…. No, I….” 

“Shhhh, you’re fine, it was only a dream, you’re fine.” 

Angie wraps both arms securely around Peggy's middle and sobs. 

* * *

The dream won't leave her alone all day. They're in a strategy meeting when she thinks she sees flames dripping down from the corner of her eye. Peggy smiles at her and all she can think about is that bloodied, manic grin. She walks down a hallway and nearly turns around to skip the strategy meeting to avoid feeling like she's heading down another endless narrow passage. Why's the stupid base gotta be underground? Who thought that was a good idea? 

"All right, out with it."

Angie nearly jumps out of her skin. "English! Whatcha doin' sneaking up on a gal like that?" 

Peggy levels her with a hard stare. "You've been skittish and out of sorts all day. What's bothering you? Is it the dream?" 

"It's nothin'." Her eyes dart anywhere but Peggy's, afraid of what she'll see there.

"Let me help you." She grabs one of Angie's hands, and all Angie can think about is the Peggy from her dream holding tight as she dragged her down the flaming asile, their matching gowns getting charred and ruined from the soot. “Angie… Please.” 

She freezes, staring at Peggy’s hand on hers. Her grip is warm, not like the nightmare at all. Angie finally looks up. Peg’s giving her that soft look again, the one she usually saves for in the middle of the night when it’s dark enough to pretend they don’t see it. “Talk to me.” 

Angie swallows, thinks real hard about it, then shakes her head. “I can’t, English.” 

Peggy blinks at her, but she don’t move her hand away, or try and make her talk again. “Ready for dinner?” Angie furrows her brow at the abrupt change in subject, but her stomach growls loud enough to give an answer for her. Peggy chuckles and gives a gentle tug on Angie’s hand. “There’s a lovely little spot I used to go to rather frequently that survived the Blitz.” 

Angie nods and lets Peggy guide her outta the underground and into the sunlight of a partially bombed-out London. 

* * *

Without the uniform, people don’t recognize her as Captain America, just another American soldier stationed overseas. She can blend into the crowd of other GIs currently off duty without anyone asking her to pose for pictures or hum a few bars. The place is loud and boisterous, fulla types like Dum Dum who know too many verses about Hitler’s one ball. 

Angie can tell immediately what Peg’s up to by bringing her here, and she sure ain’t complaining. Place like this, she can’t really hear herself think, nevermind worry about what she’s doing having nightmares about a wedding with Peggy. She oughta give her mind a piece of her mind, making something like that into a bad thing. Not that she ever could, but a marriage with Peggy would be all she’d ever wanted. 

The guy at the piano kicks into the Captain America song. Peg looks entirely too pleased with herself to not be responsible for it, so Angie shoots her a dirty look. “Come on, Captain, they’re playing your song.” 

“Only if you join in, English,” Angie says, reaching both arms out. To her surprise, Peggy only rolls her eyes and grabs both her hands, twirling her around into an easy swing. It don’t really fit the song, and it’s really not the stupid routine she tapped out all across the good ol’ USA, but it’s _Peggy_ , with her warm hands and soft skin and perfect lipstick and hair only slightly starting to fall out of the careful curls. 

They take turns leading. Angie barely remembers not to move too fast from the serum or pull Peggy back to her too hard or to show off by pulling her into some unexpected lifts. She don’t wanna attract too much attention from the other patrons. They’re still two gals in the midst of a war, and Angie knows better’n most what happens when the wrong sorts of people see two gals dancing too close. 

The song ends. Peggy’s breathless, with a thin sheen of sweat dotting her face, brushing her hair back into some of the pins that came loose. Angie’s still breathing normal, thanks to the serum. They’re both grinning widely at one another. They duck outta the place before they can get recognized by too many people (and really when Peg said she “used to” go to the place, she really meant the past tense; not even the bartender knew her anymore). 

“C’mon, English, I don’t wanna go back underground yet.” Angie spreads her arms wide and spins. It’s dark, but she don’t care. It’s just as dark in the stupid SSR base, since they’d had to go to ground when the Blitz happened and it was just safer that way. “I always wanted to leave New York some day, you know? I never thought I’d end up here of all places. Kinda figured I’d end up in the old country, see where my dad was born and all that.” 

“In Italy, you mean?” 

“Nah, English, in _Ireland_ , that’s where we _Martinellis_ come from.” She rolls her eyes. “Yes, Italy, but I don’t know what part. Ma and them don’t talk about it much, but Nonna don’t really speak any English, so we all had to learn Italian growin’ up. Ma was pretty steamed about it, ‘cos she wanted us to be American-born Americans, but she lost that one.” 

“Your mother didn’t want you learning Italian?” 

“Thing’s’re different over there. We can’t all go to fancy boarding schools and learn Latin.” 

Peggy makes a face at her. “I’ll have you know, I did not study Latin in school. They were much more concerned about us perfecting our French.” 

Angie bursts out laughing. “I was kidding! But now I know you went to a fancy boarding school and learned French.” She wags a finger. “I’ll get more outta you yet, just you wait.” 

Instead of answering her proper, Peggy bumps into her shoulder. “There’s not much to tell. You probably know more about me than my own family does, and that’s not even counting the classified missions I can’t tell them about. My mother would be absolutely horrified to hear what you said to that commander in Czechoslovakia.” 

“That fathead had no business wavin’ a gun around like he was a juggler in a circus! Serves him right.” Angie crosses her arms. “I’d do it again, too, and you know it, so why don’t ya say what’s really bugging you?” 

Peggy stops walking and stuffs her hands into her pockets. “Have I done something to offend you?”

Angie stops too. “What? What’re you talkin’ about? ‘Course not.” 

“If I’ve misread… If you feel I’ve overstepped my boundaries, please, I need you to tell me before…” 

“Before what?” 

“Before I go and embarrass myself further on delusions of grandeur.”

“Delusions of… Speak English, English.” 

Angie’s still laughing at her own joke when Peggy grabs her by the shoulders and pulls her into the shadow of a hollowed out building. 

She’s not laughing anymore when Peggy presses her lips against hers. 

_Peggy’s lipstick is smudged_ , is all Angie can think, staring at the gorgeous face looking terrified back at her. Peggy’s lipstick is smudged when it usually looks so neat and tidy she’d almost think it was her natural shade if she hadn’t seen the woman apply the makeup every morning they were out trekking across Europe. Her hair is hanging loose, most of the pins giving up after the strain of the day and the dancing and Angie’s hands running through it. 

Just when she thinks the night couldn’t get any better, Peggy sheepishly pulls a squashed violet from the pocket of her coat and tucks it into one of the buttonholes of Angie’s jacket. 

“How long ya been hangin’ onto that?”

“Quite long enough, _Captain_.” 

Angie hums happily and loops her arm through Peggy’s and walks with her best girl back to their barracks. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one's a bit shorter than the others. Peggy got a bit impatient with me and I decided ending the chapter there worked out better than the next part.


End file.
